


Empire

by Sylvanius



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Canon Compliant, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Missing Scene, Shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvanius/pseuds/Sylvanius
Summary: All roads lead to Carthak.An anthology of shorts; missing scenes and alternate perspectives from EM. Immortals and T&S canon-compliant. Each entry is pulled from my prompt-challenge based anthology 'Musings', and re-collected and re-ordered here to form a singular narrative.





	1. Fealty

He sat in his favorite chair, not registering its familiarity nor its comfort. Perhaps it was the sleepless night but nothing felt familiar anymore. Everything had shifted—again.

He remembered looking into a rulers eyes—a newly crowned emperor, a best friend and an enemy—where he found malice that seemed to reach out as if to annihilate him.

A few words; a royal decree.

"_Your charge is treason, Draper."_

And just like that everything changed. Weeks—months?—in the dungeons until he was sure it was death that had opened the door, not a teacher with flyaway blonde hair and a penchant for smuggling people out of an empire. Fortunately, it was the latter.

And just like that he was leaving home.

That was a long time ago now.

Miles and years began to multiply, taking him further and further from the man, the child, called Arram Draper. Then, last night…

He remembered looking into a rulers eyes—a king struggling to protect his people, a friend when he could be—where he found sympathy that seemed to reach out as if to embrace him.

A few words; a royal decree.

"_I need you to go to Carthak, Numair."_

And just like that he was going home.


	2. Homecoming

Numair stood on the deck, knuckles white where they clutched the taffrail. On the horizon a hazy speck had appeared—Carthak.

"Are you okay?" Daine appeared next to him—or maybe she had been there all along.

"Yes, magelet." He said through clenched teeth.

"Liar."

With anyone else he would have lashed out, but she was different. She was always different. An understanding of who he was on a deeper level, perhaps. An understanding of surviving some of the more horrible trials life could throw your way, certainly.

"I escaped once, barely. I was half-dead when I managed it, and I'm not so sure I would be able to again. I swore I'd never go back," he said it quietly enough he thought she must not have heard him over the wind.

She was only choosing her words, though, because her voice came clear and in stark contrast to his own failing one.

"You didn't have _me_ then." She reached over, placing her hand over his. "We arrive together; we leave together." She watched the horizon with him.

"Daine, should anything happen to me you have to _get out_. If anything goes wrong at all, you know our orders."

"I do," she nodded, "and I also know people will have fair bigger problems than a misbehaving girl if it comes to that." She squeezed his hand again. "We arrive together; we leave together."


	3. Birthright

"You almost seem more interested in what makes those orbs work than what I'm saying," Varice chided.

"Sorry—"

"No," she laughed and it almost sounded genuine. "It's nice to know that some things don't change. I remember what it was like to try to pull you away from a book."

It was his turn to laugh. "You give me more credit than I deserve, and less flack for my avoidance strategies than you should." He smirked, "it's nice to know that some things don't change."

They reached the end of the corridor, where the hallway split into two. They turned to the right, following the circular route it led for the third time.

A bird broke free of a bush in the nearby gardens, disturbing the quiet that fell between whatever information they could share that did not feel too close to home.

"Veralidaine—"

"_Daine_," he corrected, "and I wouldn't suggest letting her hear you call her anything else." He would let her draw both meanings—the humble distaste of her given name, the pain of the one that followed.

His stomach twisted in an odd way to be speaking of Daine. Specifically to be speaking of Daine with Varice. It made no sense but these were worlds that felt like they were never meant to intersect.

"Daine," Varice sad tentatively, following his lead fluidly as only someone so socially brilliant could. "Is she—" She sighed and Numair steeled himself for the accusation to come. A familiar one, but one he didn't want from her of all people.

"Is what the tribesmen said true? Is her father a god?" She said it quickly, in a low voice as she looked behind them along the long, empty corridor. He was more taken aback by her sudden shift in her demeanor, the intensity in her eyes, than he was the question.

"I don't know the details of her birth any more than she does." It was a problem he had decided to delve into another time and also one that, ultimately, was not his to solve. He sighed, "but I think so."

When the Bankiju had addressed her it was like puzzle pieces falling into place. He had no proof, but some things you just felt in your bones.

He opened his mouth, excited to connect the constellation of her birth now that it had been broached but faltered at the alarm in Varice's eyes.

Varice continued to walk but steered them towards the edge of the corridor where the shadows were deeper. She brought a hand up to the pin holding her veil in place at the shoulder of her dress. The Imperial Crest—a trinket that seemed to catch his eye no matter how he tried to ignore it.

Fire, faint but visible to his sight, erupted around the crest and Varice. Not merely a trinket, he realized. Multi-color fire woven in and out of each other in layer upon layer. He marveled at the complexity of the spell, not to mention the spells to conceal the spell. Even he was having trouble bringing it into focus.

She continued walking, straightening her veil. To a passerby they looked as though they were spending their stroll in quiet contemplation, but her voice came clearly to him and him alone. Underneath the fire he could see her form flickering like a ghost as she spoke.

"Are you _mad_? You saw the way he collects immortals in the menagerie—do you think he views _people_ any differently? You bring a god-child into his house and expect him to let her walk away? You may as well put her on the table when you're bargaining for peace."

And just like that the fire was gone and her voice was pleasant, and vacant, once more.

"And how are you dealing with the cold, Numair? I hear the winters are dreadful."

He wasn't sure if he had ever been as cold as he was right at that moment.


	4. The Price to be Paid

They had ventured to Carthak in pursuit of peace. A last-ditch effort to avoid a war that would be costly to Tortall—or so they said. What they _knew_ was that they were going to avoid a war they were not sure they could win.

He was under more scrutiny than anyone else—Arram the rogue mage, the treasonist, the traitor to the Imperial Crown. He knew that his every step must toe the line. For peace.

Peace was worth everything and anything.

Numair had prepared for the worst. Prepared for what he knew Ozorne wanted—for him to walk, freely, back into his clutches and pay for his perceived crimes. He had prepared for this, and in all his preparation he had failed to see that there was something else the Emperor Mage had set his sights on.

He had barely controlled his rage when the proctor read the letter Daine was accused of writing. His whole body shook as the delegation returned to the docks. Then, more than ever, he would need to walk that line. He needed to do his part to salvage any hope of that peace they had so needed.

Peace was worth anything.

And as he slipped away, a simulacra seamlessly taking his place, he knew that if she did not survive this he would do everything in his power to unite the Eastern Lands and bring a fury raining down on this wretched land like the world had never seen.

Peace was worth anything, but not her.


	5. Power

He stumbled, scraping his knee on the crumbling remains of a pillar and narrowly avoiding the scattering of smoldering coals that had spilled from the overturned brazier.

He trembled as he pushed himself to his feet and moved through the gates, towards the menagerie.

He knew those gates. He had walked through them as a youth—his best friend at his right and his future wife at his left as they loftily chattered about the life they would lead together.

He had imagined those gates much like this, crumbling to ash under the weight of his fury—his enemy on the throne and his ex-lover in the ballroom as he wasted away in the dungeons.

He had never had the talent of prophecy but he had _seen_ this as clearly as if he had willed it from all those years ago. No. Not this, exactly.

In the end, _his_ fury wasn't Carthak's undoing.

A melted trail of bones scattered the path ahead of him. Even in the dim light still afforded by the few intact lanterns he recognized it. A beast long dead, along with all of its kind. A giant who was never again supposed to know this world.

A shiver ran down his spine. He thought he knew power. Because of him, Corus had magical protections in place that were the envy of the Eastern Lands. Because of him, the City of the Gods had revisited their stance on the abilities and applications of simulacra. Because of him, somewhere just south of the Swoop, a man who used to be a tree and was now named Qiom and tended to his orchard.

He faltered, Kaddar moving past him and urging him on with words that he did not hear. He looked around, taking in the wreckage of what, just hours before, had been an empire.

_This_ was power.


	6. Begin the End

He sat by her bed, irked by the healers who hovered near the open door which they had propped open hours earlier. Even an unconscious a girl without a chaperone was no better than she ought to be here.

How knew things would change under Ozorne's rule but this was not the country he remembered leaving. The land he had fled still offered hope of a better life for some and, while not as progressive as the country that had a woman as champion, was not so judgmental of someone just because they wore a skirt.

He was shocked by how quickly culture could change in what, really, had not been so many years.

Then again, it had shocked him how quickly Ozorne had changed. Looking back, he knew exactly when it had started—when the first rumblings of the avalanche to follow could be heard.

Power was a funny thing. Many think there are two types of people in the world: those who hunger for power and those who don't. He wished it were so simple.

In truth, most don't even know to reach for power. They've never had enough to develop so much as a taste so why would they crave it? That's the dangerous thing about power, though. Once it sets roots it can spread through your veins like venom.

What does a boy seventh or fifth in line for the throne care about politics? That boy wants to run away to the mountains. A boy second or, gods above, first…

He rarely thought of _before_ anymore, when he knew Ozorne as well as he knew himself—better than Varice in some ways. Girls still mystified him back then.

When he thought, no, _knew_ his friend was a good person.

All it took was a taste of power.

He leaned back, staring out the window at the smoldering wreckage of the once magnificent palace.

Power…

A shiver ran down his spine.

A boy who wanted to run away to the mountains once found out he could sit on a throne, and wrought famine on a nation. Imagine if he had tasted divinity.

He remembered Ozorne coming back after that last Imperial funeral—so many in so few years—and there being something different in his eyes. Something Numair didn't recognize until it was far too late.

He wanted her to wake up, to see that it was still her. To look her in the eye and see the blue-grey of a stormy sea and not venom.

But, he feared that this could change her and that, for the second time in his life, he may see his best friend travel a path he could not follow.


	7. Divide

Daine slipped outside, and steadied herself against the balcony railing. She felt her arms tremble under her weight. Even after sleeping for days she still felt weak at the best of times.

She was thankful for what little breeze the balmy night air afforded her. She turned, realizing she was not alone.

Varice leaned with her elbows against the bannister, looking off across the river. The deep blue of the her simple gown nearly matched the bruise that crept along her cheek.

Daine straightened, willing her body to stop shaking and finding herself lost for words. If Varice felt the discomfort she didn't show it. She stared across the bank, turning something over in her fingers. Daine paused, trying to make it out. It was lumpy —a rock, maybe? —but there were hints of a form, and eyes.

As if sensing her curiosity the woman spoke. "He made this for me. A long time ago."

For a moment Daine thought she was speaking of Ozorne, then realized who she meant. Of course.

"He was always fond of animals, even then." Varice stopped playing with the object and turned it in her hand so that Daine could see it more clearly. "I never have. Dirty, troublesome," Varice glanced at Daine then; a look that said a thousand words. "But there was this one cat who used to sit on the windowsill in the kitchens. A pretty thing."

Varice stroked the object delicately, a shallow cut running the length of her finger —glaring against her fair skin. "White and lustrous. She would sit in the sill and preen and watch me while I worked. _Her_ I was quite fond of. I would sneak her fish, sometimes. She liked perch."

Daine saw now that the eyes rested below what could be two pointy ears, and the rough lines might have been attempts at whiskers.

"Then one day," she sighed, "one day the butcher ran her over with his cart." She tapped her nail against the figure. "And so he made this for me, so she could still keep me company. I put it on the windowsill and it's been there ever since. Until now."

Silence stretched out between them. The knowledge of the physical intimacy between this woman and her teacher irked her, but proof of their emotional intimacy —she pushed the thoughts away. This wasn't her place.

"I'm glad you're okay," Daine said, finally.

Varice scoffed and Daine couldn't help but note that she still managed to sound like a lady. "Of _course_. You hold me and my aspirations in such _high_ regard; I'm sure you would have thought me to a great loss."

"Just because we don't have anything in common doesn't mean I wish you ill," she replied, slowly.

Varice turned to look her over as Daine squirmed under the scrutiny. Finally, Varice sighed and shook her head.

"We have at least one thing in common," she said softly, as she placed the little clay cat in front of Daine and walked inside.


	8. Love, and Other Distant Things

"Would you like to come eat? Dinner is laid out," he motioned behind him, back inside to where the delegation was seated.

"I know." She kept her hands clasped in front of her, the setting sun casting golden shadows that shimmered against the fabric of her veil and clashed starkly with the bruise spread across her cheek.

"Oh course," he faltered. Even in the worst of times you could always count on Varice to throw a party and, he supposed, this may just be the worst of times for her.

Another time, another decade, and he would have moved to comfort her. Now, though, he stood his ground with his hands thrust in his pockets as the sun set on what was left of the empire.

He didn't move to close the gap between them, but neither did she.

A few days prior, even years apart and a sea between them hadn't seemed to erase the connection they felt; not entirely.

Now though, something lay between them that couldn't be traversed. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Disappointment, perhaps. Loss. Anger, fairly enough. Rage. Time. A girl with a knack for animals. A demigoddess, evidently.

Hands that grasped at one another days ago now did not so much as reach towards one another.

He pushed the thoughts that suddenly seemed to crowd him away. They were for another time—or, perhaps, some would be best forgotten entirely. He focused on her. As beautiful as ever but so foreign to him now.

"I just thought," her voice cracked but if you didn't know her you might not catch it. "I thought I should say goodbye." She looked at him, her practiced demeanor betrayed by the tremble of her lip—a quiver when she met his eye, but gone just as suddenly.

"I always wished I had been able to say goodbye to you. Back then," she shook her head and looked off across the garden. "Wondered if it would feel less—" another shake of the head as she turned back to him.

"I wanted that. Closure," she sighed. "This isn't what I thought it would feel like."

"Me neither," he replied, softly. He half-shrugged, the motion feeling callous even as he did it but what of it? There was something so acutely matter-of-fact about this moment. If we were ever asked about it he wondered if he would be able to describe it accurately.

"Varice—"

"No," she shook her head, "It's okay. We had a lot of each other once—maybe all of one another—and that time will always be ours."

He nodded and offered her a smile, wondering if it was the first truly genuine one he had shared with her since he was a gangly teenager. She returned it, looking younger and so much like the girl who had first stole his heart that for a moment he almost felt sad to see her go as she disappeared into the gardens—almost.


	9. Miles to Go

"Well, dearie, we finally have a moment to ourselves." Where before there had been nothing but empty space and his thoughts to keep him company, the Graveyard Hag now cackled.

He sighed, not moving from where he leaned against the banister, and watched the palace burn across the river.

"Why do I have the feeling that was more your _choice_ than anything?" He glanced at her—she wore a tattered robe, no shoes and had a thick ear cuff of what appeared to be many entwined, golden rats that glinted against the stubble on her scalp. She shrugged, looking the picture of terrifying innocence.

"It's been a long time," he said, finally.

"You took a long time to become the man you needed to be." She grinned at him and winked. "I always knew you'd grow up handsome."

He shook his head, exhausted. "I suppose you're here to tell me something troubling?"

"I'm hurt. You don't think the gods ever just want to chat? You've toppled an empire; maybe I'm curious as to what you think you'll do next."

"Retire, ideally. Spend the rest of my days in my tower with books and a cozy fire. Daine can come too, if she wants. Everyone else can just go away." He tried to jest, but wistfulness bled through.

The Hag leaned against her gnarled walking stick, picking at a nail.

He sighed, "it's not over, is it?"

"Not by a long shot." She was serious now and the effect was more unsettling than when she seemed half-mad. "Miles to go, my pet."

"I don't suppose you'd want to give me any more information than that." His fingers tapped against the banister. "Or _can_ you?" He turned to her, brow knit. Gods always talked in riddles and he found it terribly hard to discern what they actually did or did not know.

She glared at him. "I'll let your insinuation that I am anything less than divine slide, but only because the new boy seems much better suited to my liking than the one you helped boot." She met his eyes, studying him. "Do you want to know?"

He gaped, not knowing the answer. Knowledge could be a terrible thing. Finally, he shook his head. "No, thank you. You know I've never put much stock in prophecy."

She cackled, "we _both_ know that's not true! You believed well enough until Enzi told you something you didn't like. What a _fit_ you had."

He blanched and felt a hot blush rise up his neck at the memory. A boy of seventeen, book-bound and blind, standing on the banks of the Zekoi and yelling at the crocodile god that he _would _marry Varice and the deity knew nothing of love.

When he turned to the hag there was nothing but empty air where she had stood, but her cackling last words hovered around him.

"Be prepared, mage! _Now_ things are about to get interesting."


	10. Homecoming, Again

He walked below deck, away from his student. _Former student_; the thought came unbidden. The girl who left her home his student and, whether or not she yet realized it, was leaving a foreign land a legend. The girl who brought an empire to its knees.

He closed his cabin door behind him. Behind it, the sounds of the bustling crew faded. The smell of dirt and spices was overwhelmed by that of wood and salt. He was going home. He was going home _free_.

The boat rocked, carrying him away from a land that had cast a shadow over him even from across the Great Inland Sea. Now, he was truly free of it in a way he had never hoped to believe he would be.

He sat on his cot, rocking with the motion of the ship, and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any constructive criticism or feedback, or just enjoyed it please consider leaving a comment!


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